Spit and snot run down Henry’s cheeks, mixing with bits of hamburger and ketchup, which creates a stream of red-tinged drool. My five-year-old has always had a flare for drama, and this is his trademark style of crying – high pitched wails broken up by dramatic, stifled grunts. He holds his breath and spit sputters from his pursed lips. I expect his eyes to bulge cartoon-like from their sockets at any moment.

Whit reaches over and bangs loudly with his two-year-old fist on Henry’s plate once, twice, then a third time. “Stop it!” Henry whines. “STOP!” Emboldened by his older brother’s pleas, Whit then plunges his fork into Henry’s dollop of ketchup with immense delight, while the supply of ketchup on his own plate remains untouched. Whit is absolutely drunk on his own little brother superpowers.

The boys begin to tussle, push-pull-push-pull, Henry screaming and Whit laughing. A water bottle crashes to the floor and liquid explodes from the “no leak” straw and lid. Henry’s plate follows soon after, an ear-piercing crash of hollow plastic. Peas scatter to places they will never be found and ketchup splatters onto the white baseboards and up the wall. At the sound, Lucy – our excitable and food obsessed terrier – skitters into the room. Henry leaps from his chair to rescue the half of his hamburger that somehow remains intact on the floor, but Lucy gets there first and the burger vanishes in a single swallow.

Suddenly, it is quiet. Too quiet. His jaw and fist clenched, Henry turns an icy gaze on his brother, then grabs Whit’s hand, squeezes and refuses to let go. Whit recoils, then swats spastically, catching violent air that upsets his balance and brings him to the floor with a “THUD”. He lands face down in the remnants of Henry’s dinner, embarrassed but unhurt. He wails at me from the floor, a chunk of hamburger dangling from his eyebrow. Henry’s eyes meet mine and I sense fear, but detect mostly big brother satisfaction. “Alright,” my husband bellows. “Dinner is over. Everybody, clear your plates.”

The entire incident, start to finish, has taken less than ninety seconds. By the time my husband declares dinner over, I have taken two bites of my meal. A healthy, homemade meal I took great care to prepare. His plate is similarly untouched and I watch as he now shovels its contents hurriedly into his mouth while standing over the kitchen sink. I make a mental note to investigate feedbags for parents. I finish my meal as Whit, with his ketchup streaked hair, shrieks and paws at my elbow. Welcome to family dinner with two under five.

…

When I was six years old, I stuck a pea up my nose at family dinner. My parents, likely having inhaled their meals (see reasons above), were already at work on the dishes in the kitchen when it happened. This left my older sister and me unattended at the table, struggling with our piles of peas. I watched with great delight as she positioned a pea at the opening of her nose and blew hard. The pea, like a cannonball sailing across a battlefield, ricocheted off her plate and landed next to my fork. It was an absolutely brilliant move, as was the goading that followed from my big sister. Go ahead, little sister. You can do it, too. So, I picked up a pea and shoved it deep into my nostril, where it remained until the pediatrician removed it with a special pair of long, slender tweezers some hours later.

I can still tell you exactly where we all sat each night of my childhood family dinners. Mom and Dad across from one another, and Ash and I flanking the sides of the oval dropleaf wooden table, not unlike the one I have now in my own home. We bickered. We complained. We laughed. We shoved peas up our noses and secretly spit food we didn’t like into paper napkins that we shoved into cracks under the table.

Then our family of four dropped to three. Dad moved out and ate alone many nights in a cruddy apartment across town. I would see his empty chair each night and become consumed with worry over his loneliness. Was he eating alone? Or with only the company of Tom Brokaw on TV? Was he sad? Because I sure was. Now, I imagine he likely relished in all that quiet, all that time to savor a meal at the end of a long day. Because in truth no one had asked him to leave. It was a life he chose; a life he fought for. The loneliness and worry were perhaps mine alone, and judging how little she ate at dinner, maybe Mom’s too.

In the years that followed, family dinner took on many iterations. Kids Cuisines and Hot Pockets eaten in a stark, white rental apartment on the nights Mom worked late. Homemade lo mein and giggles about “pu pu platters” with my best friend at her parent’s Chinese restaurant. I loved how her father slurped noodles with such visceral and vigorous joy, an act that would have been a serious table transgression in my traditional Southern home. Lemon chicken, green beans, and duchess potatoes from our beloved hometown grocer, warmed in the microwave while Mom sprinted up the backstairs to peel off her pantyhose.

Grilled pork tenderloin, zucchini sprinkled with salty parmesan, and thick slices of ripe Hanover tomatoes on summer weekends, still one of my stepfather’s favorite meals. Turkey, stuffing and all the fixins’ on a beer pong table draped in tablecloths just before college let out for Thanksgiving break. We drank magnum bottles of wine and danced to hip-hop after the leftovers had been stowed away. Tempeh Reuben sandwiches and sweet potato fries in the moldy, cricket-infested basement apartment I shared with Zach before we married. Pan-seared salmon and a slice of chocolate cake decorated with a single raspberry, made by my mother-in-law for my 31st birthday. I ate in bed with a pillow resting gently over my fresh C-section incision. Henry was only two days old and I felt like Alice tumbling down a postpartum rabbit hole. Eat me. Drink me. Take me. Split me in two.

…

One night, not long after my dad left, my sister and I sat at his kitchen table in that cruddy and too quiet apartment awaiting dinner. It was a school night, definitely a Wednesday, as was our designated weekly overnight with him per my parent’s custody agreement. I remember how the dining chairs had basket weave backs and seats, which always left tiny squares imprinted on the backs of my adolescent legs. Walking briskly into the room, he placed our plates in front of us and sat. 

“What is this?” I asked. “Just try it,” he said. “Then, tell me what you think is inside.”

I poked skeptically at the half moon-shaped dumplings nestled under a blanket of steaming marinara sauce. Cutting off a small corner, I took a tentative bite. Pasta. Cheese. Mashed potatoes—a buttery and creamy warmth that coated my tongue. Tomatoes and salt and garlic—that kick of acid every rich and fatty dish needs to feel fully formed and alive.

“They’re called pierogies,” he said, studying my face closely. “Hmm,” I said. “I like them.” 

He smiled. “Good, I found them in the freezer section at the store.” He hopped up and excitedly showed us a blue box, the one I now know well as Mrs. T’s. “You just boil them,” he said. “We can have them again.”

I feel as if I truly saw him for the first time, then. As a parent attempting, but rarely succeeding at, shared connection over shared plates. And as a flawed human hungry for love and understanding, and maybe even forgiveness. I also saw beyond the shabby kitchen cabinets and cracked drywall that night, to the Beatles poster in the hallway that used to hang in our home, to the picture frames and trinkets still scattered on top of his dresser like breadcrumbs guiding me back to him. 

But I grew older, and saw more and more of him until I could see no more. I have not spoken to my dad in over ten years, much less shared a meal with him. There is a hunger, it turns out, that cannot be sated by food and food alone.

***

I clear the dishes from the table and the boys race down the hallway. I hear the clatter of a race track being built, then the white rush of water as my husband fills the bathtub in preparation for the bedtime routine. I sing along to Brandi Carlile as I finish loading the dishwasher and sweep up the remnants of tonight’s meal under the table. I wipe down chairs smeared with ketchup and crusted peanut butter, which I apparently missed at lunchtime. I sweep and wipe and sweep and wipe. The work is mind-numbing and routine, but I’ve come to enjoy this part of the day when I’m alone for a moment in the kitchen with my music.

I feel a hand on my lower back. I turn and Zach leans in to give me a kiss. The stubble on his chin scratches my face and his hands are damp with bath water. His closeness reminds me that I did not shower today and for a moment, I feel a twinge of self-consciousness about my pony tail and gym clothes. 

“Thank you for dinner,” he says. “It was really good.” I laugh, “I’m glad someone enjoyed it. Thanks for coming.” 

“Of course,” he replies. I hear the boys begin to argue down the hall. He gives my butt a quick squeeze. 

“Children are so magical,” he quips before leaving to wrangle dirty little bodies into the tub.

After a meal like tonight’s I often wonder why we even try. The boys could eat earlier. They’d still argue and complain, but at least it wouldn’t ruin our meal. Zach and I could eat after bedtime, as we do on the weekend. We can worry about family dinner later. They are too young. This is too messy. Too stressful. Too damn hard. But then there are the dinners when the five-year-old tells a story that makes us all laugh or the two-year-old explodes with surprised joy at a bite of roasted broccoli tossed in olive oil, garlic, breadcrumbs and pecorino. Exclamations of appreciation. Requests for seconds. Satisfied belly pats.

Family dinner, in all its multitudes, is an anchor. Its offerings arriving on plates like waves in rough and calm moments, pushing us closer, then farther apart, then closer once again. There is no balance to be found in these wild and open seas. So take heart, hold tightly to one another, and learn to sway.

***

Guest essay written by Martha J. Miller. Martha lives in the small, turn-of-the-century railroad town of Ashland, Virginia with her husband and two boys. When she’s not telling everyone she meets how great her little town is and why they should move there, you can find her breaking up sibling wrestling matches gone awry, laughing at her husband’s dark jokes, and writing with the windows open to the sounds of cicadas and train whistles. You can find more of her writing at marthajmiller.com.

Photo by Lottie Caiella